


Dear Dollophead

by I_couldnt_think_of_a_name20



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Adopted Children, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Asexual Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Asexual Character, Asexual Lancelot, Balinor gets to be a dad, Depressed Merlin (Merlin), Everyone Gets Plenty of Hugs Eventually, F/M, Families of Choice, Family Reunions, Fix-It of Sorts, Gwaine is his own warning, Gwaine just Loves Everyone So Much, Gwen is a Good Friend, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I apologize in advance for my butchering of several languages, I promise, I'm going to hell for this I swear, I'm not sure if I'm portraying it right, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Everything Awful at This Point, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Leon is Confused but Trying His Best, M/M, Merlin Gets a Hug, Merlin Needs a Hug (Merlin), Merlin keeps a diary of sorts, Multi, Please Don't Hate Me, Selectively Mute Merlin, Someone stop me, Sort of? - Freeform, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, What Was I Thinking?, also Hunith and Ygraine collectively mother everyone, are they still adopted children if everyone involved is an adult?, but it doesn't work, discussion of PTSD and war, gwaine is a good bro, i'm going to stop tagging now, if I get it wrong, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2019-11-13 20:44:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18038708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_couldnt_think_of_a_name20/pseuds/I_couldnt_think_of_a_name20
Summary: Merlin writes a series of letters to Arthur during the years following Arthur's death. When Arthur returns, he finds a box full of letters addressed to him. What he finds helps him to understand his long-suffering friend, even though it breaks his heart at the same time.*Cross-posted from FF.net under the name clotpolesforever.*Rated Teen because I'm paranoid. And also for the tags.(Everyone comes back except Uther because he's a slimeball.)





	1. The Lake of Rest Eternal

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Please be nice as I've never actually used this site before. Enjoy! 
> 
> Disclaimer: If it was mine, there would be a season 6. And Merlin would HAVE A SEAT AT THE EVERLOVING ROUND TABLE, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. And also be Court Sorcerer to Arthur's High King of Albion. AND THERE WOULD BE AN ACTUAL GOLDEN AGE OF MAGIC (at least for a few years before everybody up and dies). Bitter, me?? Pfft, nah.

One.

 

Arthur woke, gasping, in a field of wildflowers. He ran his hands frantically over the wound on his side…only to find no wound at all. He wasn't even tired. He was also not wearing his armor. The shirt he was wearing reminded him of the one he'd worn before going on that quest to find the Fisher King's trident. The trousers were black velvet. He wore no shoes. He sat up, perplexed. He was also pretty sure the sky wasn't supposed to look like the bottom of a clear lake. He stood up, tracking the progress of a boat across the surface of the…sky? Lake bottom? He watched as it was set aflame, as it was consumed and became ash. Then he saw him. Merlin. God, he looked awful. As if one of his best friends had just…oh. Right. He remembered that bit now.  
He watched Merlin flung a sword into the water. Excalibur. Somehow, Arthur caught it. He saw Merlin smile a little at that and walk away.

"Wait! Merlin! Merlin, you idiot, turn around!"

"He can't hear ya, Queenie. I've tried, too. We all have."

Arthur whirls around, " _Gwaine_?! How the hell did you get here?" Gwaine gives him a sad smile. Arthur notices they are wearing much the same clothes. Others are standing behind Gwaine: Elyan, Balinor the Dragonlord, a strange druid girl who looks vaguely familiar wearing a tattered red dress, Arthur's mother—oh, god his _mother_ , that lad from Ealdor named Will, Lancelot, Mordred. That last one gives him pause—didn't Mordred murder him?—but then Gwaine says something that he was desperately trying to ignore.  
"We died, mate. All of us."

"Hang on, what is this place? Where are we?"

"Avalon," the druid girl replies.

"Who are you?" Arthur asks, perplexed.

The girl smiles, "the Sidhe call me the Lady of the Lake, or Niniane. Merlin knew me as Freya. I'd think you would've remembered me, though." There is a heavy pause, a thick tension. "You killed me, after all."

 

Arthur takes a long time to forgive himself for so thoroughly messing with everyone's lives, but he eventually musters the courage to ask for forgiveness; only to find out that they forgave him long ago and were just waiting for him to realize it.

Gwen comes to the lake sometimes, dressed all in black, begging for him to return because she needs him. Because Merlin needs him. Merlin never comes to the lake.

The next to join their number is Gaius. This is also the first time any of them have seen Merlin since the day Arthur died. If Arthur thought his friend looked bad before, he looks practically dead on his feet now. The poor man appears as though he hasn't slept or eaten in months. He drops to his knees heavily on the graveled shore, and whispers only a few words.

"I'm sorry. I couldn't save him, Arthur. Just like I couldn't save you."

When Merlin returns to the lake sometime later, he looks a bit healthier, though there are tears on his face. Hunith has just joined them in Avalon, and this is also when Arthur learns that Balinor was Merlin's father. Merlin is angry now, screaming his voice hoarse, ripping branches and bark off trees, hurling stones into the water. Sending fireballs scorching through the clearing with a flash of gold and a single word. It is terrifying, and terribly heart-breaking. Hunith weeps for her son, and Balinor tries yelling back at him even though he knows it won't do any good.

The rest join them over the years: first is Geoffrey, then Percival, then Leon, then Bedivere, Galahad, Kay, Bors, Geraint, and Gwen last of all. After the lighting of Guinevere's funeral pyre, they don't see Merlin again until they rise from the lake's waters. It is painful, the not knowing. Even more painful is the knowledge that Merlin has not aged since Arthur's death, even though Gwen looked to be in her seventies when she died. (Arthur is thankful her youth has returned to her upon entry into Avalon. Gwaine teases him mercilessly over this.)

When they find Merlin, he is wearing strange clothes, sporting a short scruffy beard, pointing some kind of weapon at them. There is no recognition in his eyes. 


	2. Of Medieval Detectives and A Study in Avoidance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This... is short. I'm sorry. Most of my chapters seem to be ending up short.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening, ladies and gentlemen and variations thereupon. This is the second chapter, as the greatly gifted of you can deduce by the number two just below this note. If you don’t like to hear about depression, suicidal ideations, drug abuse, or PTSD, I kindly suggest you find your local back button and (if you are so inclined) the Office of Complaints. Also, Geoffrey the librarian shall not appear among the resurrected Camelotians. I was going to put him in, and then realized that there were a lot of characters already there. Thank you, and enjoy four hours of fun time. Not. (Side note: I don’t own it. Sigh. Oh, well.) [Secondary side note: Freylin! And whatever Balinor/Hunith is called because I feel like they would be that sassy middle-aged married couple, and I just need more of them in my life.]

Two.

 

There is no recognition in his eyes. That hurts worse than the realization that Merlin has a weapon currently pointed at Arthur’s chest. The idea that Merlin wouldn’t know them has never featured in any of their darkest thoughts.

And then Gwaine says softly, his hands up to show he is unarmed, “the bloody hell’s wrong with his eyes?” Arthur looks closer, and finds Merlin’s pupils blown wide as dandelion heads, his left hand trembling. Not only does Merlin not know them, but he is terrified of them.

“Merlin,” says Arthur, slowly, as though he is talking to a skittish horse, “it’s me. It’s just us. Gwen, the knights, Gaius, your mum and dad, your girl, my mum. All of us. We came back, Merlin. We’d never hurt you, you know that don’t you, Merlin? We’d never dream of hurting you.”

Merlin stares back at him, then murmurs, “you’re not real.” His voice is a hoarse croak, as if he spends a lot of time breathing in the smoke from campfires.

“Merlin, I think I’d know if I was a hallucination,” Freya says tartly. Then it hits all of them. It isn’t that there is no recognition because he doesn’t know them; it’s because he doesn’t think they’re actually there.

“You always say something like that, love. I'd think you’d be more creative. Then again, you’re in my head, so I can’t judge.” He smiles and lowers the weapon, fiddling with a tiny lever on the side. “There we are. Safety’s on now, just in case.” Merlin looks positively cheerful now, though it is a much darker humor than any of them are used to. “Budge along. House is this way.” He turns and lopes off into the trees, his highly disturbed, newly resurrected friends and family walking behind.

 

Merlin disappears not long after showing them inside the house, which is somehow—magic, Sire—smaller on the outside. He leaves the weapon behind. The gathered Camelotians decide to start looking around the house—it’s not snooping, Hunith, love, we’re just worried about him—to see if they can find out what happened to Merlin. To find out why he changed so much from that boy they once knew.

Ygraine marvels at the paintings he’s made over the years, all stacked haphazardly in a small dark room off the hallway that leads to the kitchen. Hunith finds Merlin’s library. (There is a whole section on Arthurian legends, each and every book stuffed full of Merlin’s slightly cramped, hasty scrawl in red ink, excoriating all the wrong answers.) Will discovers his father’s coat of arms hanging on the wall, and feels a strange bittersweet gratitude, knowing his childhood friend kept it for him all these years.

Gwaine finds all the empty liquor bottles in one of the kitchen cabinets and feels terrible, as though he is somehow to blame. Percival lights his shirt on fire trying to figure out how the stove works. Mordred helps him put the fire out, laughing that it seems Percival can’t have sleeves in this life, either. Geraint, Bors, and Kay find Merlin’s training room, with more of those strange weapons as well as iron weights and the familiar swords and crossbows. Bedivere and Galahad almost kill each other (accidentally) by fooling around in the bathroom. Elyan hauls them out, berating them for soaking the floor with water.

Leon goes to find them a mop, and returns from his quest, mop in hand, asking Gaius what a tiny glass bottle half-full of something called diacetylmorphine was used for. Gaius has no clue, and tells him to put it back where he found it. Freya finds a flowerpot where Merlin is apparently making a rather pathetic attempt to grow strawberries, and doubles over laughing.

Balinor chances upon the dragon he carved for his son all those years ago, looking a great deal shabbier now, and shows Hunith proudly. Hunith stares at him for all of three seconds before the man grumbles that it’s not his best work, but he’s pleased the lad’s kept it all these years. Hunith smiles at him, and reminds him that Merlin didn’t exactly have anything else to remember him by. Then she pronounces the dragon to be ‘darling’. Balinor splutters indignantly that dragons are ferocious creatures worthy of respect. Hunith arches one slender brow at him and asks why he made the figurine look adorable, if dragons are really so fearsome. Balinor turns near purple, and splutters some more. Gaius admonishes Hunith to stop giving her husband an aneurysm of the brain.

Arthur finds the Round Table, covered in dust and cobwebs, in the basement. Only one of the chairs is missing: the one that belonged to Merlin. He wonders what happened to it; if he’ll ever know.

Gwen is the one to find a wooden box, roughly a metre cubed, underneath Merlin’s bed. Stuffed with short letters, each and every one addressed to Arthur. She carries it into the large sitting room—the one with all the couches and the strange black glass panel on one wall—and calls everyone in to come help look through them. They each grab a stack of about ten or so. Arthur opens the first one, an aged yellowing piece of parchment that probably owes its continued existence to magic.

 

“Dear Dollophead,” he reads out (Gwaine snickers at the choice of words). “Gwen paid homage at the lake today, but I couldn’t bring myself to face her. After all,” Arthur’s voice falters, “how can ‘I’m sorry’ ever be enough? She tries to assure me that what happened to you wasn’t my fault. Maybe I’ll believe her someday.”

Gwen reads next, the page trembling slightly in her hand. “Dear Dollophead, I found out what happened to Gwaine. He was trying to stop Morgana from getting to you. In the end, I guess he found a king worth dying for. Do me a favor and tell him he didn’t fail you? Thanks.”

Balinor clears his throat lightly, “dear Dollophead, one of the many (many, many, many) things I never had the chance to tell you was about my father. Please don’t think differently of me because of who he was, just as I don’t think differently of you because of who yours was. Remember that we’re not our fathers, Arthur. And we never will be.”

Bedivere squints at his page as he holds it at arm’s length to read it, “dear Dollophead, when I asked you for a day off, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind. You’ve been much too generous, sire.”

Hunith goes next, her page shock-white and sharp at the edges. “Dear Dollophead, you know, I shouldn’t be surprised that you’ve been asleep for all this time. You always were impossible to wake up in the mornings. Let’s have you, lazy daisy. Please—that last word’s crossed out.”

Gwaine smiles as he reads, “dear Dollophead, how’s Avalon? No-one’s tried to sacrifice you for their immortality again, have they? …Sorry. It’s a long story. I seem to have a lot of those. Too bad you’ll never get to hear them all.”

Mordred frowned as he read his. “Dear Dollophead, I can never forgive Morgana for betraying you. But I can’t forgive myself either, for betraying her first. On the off chance she makes it into Avalon, tell her I’m sorry about the hemlock. And that I’m sorry for not doing more to help her. Who knows, maybe I could’ve changed destiny itself, if I hadn’t been such a coward.”

Gaius looked deeply troubled, “This one’s got a bit of poetry: ‘Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.’ Dear Dollophead, “I’m happy to be your servant. Till the day I die.” I meant it then. And I mean it now, too. But sometimes that day seems so far away.”

Freya bit her lip, “dear Dollophead, there really was a girl. Once. If you see her, tell her I say hello. And that I’d like to know whether or not she still likes strawberries. Her name is Freya.”

“Do you?” Gwaine cut in, looking amused. “Still like strawberries?”

She smiled, “I do, actually.”

“All right, my turn,” says Kay. “Dear Dollophead, sometimes I wish there was a way to get these letters to you. The only problem is, I don’t think the Sidhe make very good messengers. Especially considering I’ve offed a fair few of them.”

The jovial light in Will’s eyes dimmed and went out, “this is a long one. Dear Dollophead, I’ve joined the army. Are you proud of me? The US Army’s 107th Infantry Unit. The other lads call me English. The identity I signed up under was Martin Emerson, age 22. Fake, of course, but I couldn’t very well tell them my real name or age, now could I? I’m a medic, which is a bit like a healer, I suppose. Only I don’t remember Gaius having to put tourniquets on what’s left of a man’s legs after he stepped on a grenade, as he begs you to leave him alone, to help someone else, just let him find his baby brother, please. I don’t remember Gaius coming upon a man who has buried his face in his blood-drenched hands, presumably to muffle his screams, only to find out—when you’ve managed to pry his fingers away from his face—that he no longer has a mouth to scream with. I don’t remember Gaius answering a cry for help only for the mangled flesh that once constituted a human being to scream and cry and beg for you to kill him, to end his life because it hurts so fucking much that he can’t feel anything else anymore. (His name was Aurelius. He was 17. He’d lied on his entry form so he could help the war effort. He thanked me when I drove a knife through his chest. His eyes were two different colors: the left blue, the other hazel. I think his hair was red.) I don’t remember Gaius having a man press a blood-stained picture of his five-year-old daughter into his hands, the man choking on his own blood, as he whispers for you to take care of his Edith, only to find out—when you’ve been shipped home for a week or two—that the girl died of polio a week before he did and there’s no one else to give his goddess-damn tags to. Yes, Arthur, war is absolutely fucked up now-a-days. One of the lads—his name’s Rupert, and I could swear he’s Leon’s descendant—told me the other day, ‘war will make corpses of us all. At the very least, we’ll do our damnedest to make death proud to take us.’ Rupe, bless his philosophical soul, died last night in a gas attack. He used his last words to ask if I thought he’d done good by his country and his captain. Whoever said, “dulce et decorum est pro patria mori” is a right idiot, a wretched liar, more of a supercilious prat than you ever were, and should be cast into the thrice-damned seventh circle of hell with all the rest of these warmongers.” Will looked up, tears shining in his blue-green eyes. “My god,” he whispered hoarsely. “He’s been through hell, hasn’t he?”

There are murmurs of agreement all round, then Arthur says, his voice hollow and resigned, “well, who’s next, then? Elyan?”

The man in question nods, swallowing thickly through suppressed tears, “yeah. Um, right. Dear Dollophead, I’ve travelled all over since you’ve been gone. To see what sights this world has to offer. But in the end, I always make my way back to you. Just to be there in case you finally wake up. After all, I didn’t want you to feel you were alone.”

Leon manages a watery smile, “dear Dollophead, funnily enough, I’ve come to really enjoy poetry. I’ll read you a few of my favorites someday. When you get back.”

Geraint’s voice murmurs, “dear Dollophead, I once thought it was lonely, living like a shadow. But at least back then, I was able to live in your light.”

Bors reads, “dear Dollophead, you know, we’re supposed to be two sides of the same coin. That’s how I know you’ll be back, someday. Because I’m still here. It’s been a thousand years since you left. Some days, I can’t remember Gwen’s face, or Gaius’ voice, or the exact shade of Leon’s hair. Some days, I can’t remember what color my father’s eyes were. My mother’s favorite flower. Yet somehow, I still remember the way the sun shone on your hair, the Goddess granting you a far better and more golden crown than any wrought with finer things.”

Galahad stood up for his turn, trying to ease an ache in his leg. “Dear Dollophead, I can’t pray anymore. The old gods appear to be punishing me for failing you and our destiny. I can’t follow this new god these missionaries speak of either. His teachings sound far too much like pity and blind, false hope. And I have had more than enough of that.” 


	3. Midnight Confessions and Sleepy Cuddles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have realized, to my horror, that I completely forgot about putting Lancelot in before now! So, here is our most noble knight! And some hurt/comfort stuff. Don’t worry, nobody’s dying, just discussing PTSD and war and self-harm. Should be fun. (No, no it isn't.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not mine. *sighs* Enjoy this weird chapter. The ending is kinda cheesy but whatever.

Three.

 

Freya wakes suddenly, not certain what, exactly, had woken her but knowing it must be important. They had put off reading the rest of the letters some time ago, opting instead for sleep. All of them were concerned that Merlin hadn’t come back despite the lateness of the hour, but Arthur had pointed out that Merlin was more than capable of defending himself. It had taken some time to convince Hunith. Freya herself had had to be physically restrained by Percival to stop her from charging out into the gathering darkness to find Merlin, the Bastet’s instincts screaming for her to find him, no matter how unreasonable it seemed to others. Eventually, she had given in in the face of such opposition, as had Hunith. (Lancelot’s dark eyes had been troubled, but he kept silent.) They had all bedded down with piles of blankets on the couches and squashy armchairs they had been reading in. (Freya would never admit it, but she had almost cried at how gloriously soft the blanket was. And the chair was obviously magic with how obscenely comfortable it was, never mind that she could detect no magic in it.)

She blinks in the half-light, finding Balinor across from her on a green couch, draped over Hunith, clasping her hand even in sleep. Mordred is lying on top of both Gwaine and Elyan. Gwaine is snuggling Elyan’s legs, which is interesting considering Elyan is sprawled on the faded blue half-couch in such a manner that his feet are dangling off it. Percival has scrunched himself into a ball on an ugly yellow armchair. Gwen is lying on top of Arthur’s chest as he snores. (The king will have a nasty crick in his neck in the morning. Gwen’s left arm would probably be numb when she woke.) Gaius has fallen asleep sitting up. Leon is somehow managing to sleep lying across the back of the couch Arthur is on, looking for all the world like a particularly large cat, one of his apricot curls caught between his lips. The knights Bedivere, Bors, Kay, Galahad, and Geraint are dog-piled on top of one another on the hideous black-with-green-and-purple-splotches couch to her left.

Freya stands up, padding around sleeping bodies in bare feet, her fluffy aubergine comforter trailing behind her like the train of a courtier’s dress. She slips out the front door, thankful the hinges didn’t creak, to find Lancelot standing on the porch, staring into the trees. The silver light of the full moon make everything seem fey and otherworldly, the knight included.

“You felt it too?” he murmurs, his coal-dark eyes searching her face.

“Yes,” she whispers back. They both hesitate for a moment, another surge of that unnameable something spiking dread in both their hearts. “Come on,” she says, charging forward into the undergrowth like she had wanted to hours ago. “Let’s go find him.”

They find him after roughly half an hour of searching through the silver-drenched trees. When they come upon him, he is in the middle of a small clearing, sobbing wretchedly, curled in on himself in the space between the roots of an ancient fir. It takes them another twelve paces towards his huddled form to realize he is clawing at his left arm, the fingers of his right hand scrabbling over the bloodied, torn flesh. Freya’s first instinct is to run towards him, to close the distance and grab hold of his wrists, to make him stop. The Bastet screams at her not to, reminding her of the perils of running to a wounded, frightened creature. So she keeps a firm grip on Lancelot’s arm so he doesn’t start running and creeps over to Merlin with what feels like agonizing slowness. Together, they crouch down in front of him, Lancelot’s right hand hovering over Merlin’s shoulder, wanting to touch, to offer some measure of physical comfort but unsure if it’s a good idea. Freya eases herself down further so her eyes are level with Merlin’s, draping her borrowed blanket across both their shoulders. In this half-light, Merlin’s eyes are a wild blue, a deep-ocean, shattered-glass blue, his skin faerie-pale, his blood at once bright red and soot black. Gently, she tugs at his wrist until he relents in trying to claw his own skin off and lets her hold his hand in her lap (but it won’t stop shaking), all three of them rendered silent, waiting.

It takes him another half hour to calm enough to stop crying, the heart-wrenching sobs petering out to shuddering gasps and the occasional whimper. Even this gives way to more normal breathing; the shaking of his hands becomes more of a restless twitching. Only when he is completely calm, half-dozing with his head in Lance’s lap (the knight’s calloused fingers card through Merlin’s unruly mop of curls), his right hand fisted into her skirt, does she pry his left arm from where he’d tucked it close to his chest, still sluggishly oozing blood. Merlin makes a soft noise when she prods at the area around the wound, but otherwise gives no reaction. Freya’s eyes flash gold as she whispers words of cleansing and healing, her fingers ghosting over the torn flesh as her magic knits it back together and rids it of any dirt. Another flash of gold, and all traces of blood are gone, leaving only a tangle of spiderweb scars beneath which a strange tattoo is visible: an incomprehensible string of numbers. (There are scars on his wrist they do not ask about. This is not the time.)

 

“Merlin?” she whispers.

“Hm?”

“What do these numbers mean?”

He pushes himself into a crumpled seated position, tugs his sleeve back down, his head on Lancelot’s shoulder, and gives her a grin that is more a primal baring of teeth than anything resembling a smile. She arranges the blanket to cover the three of them, breathing in the muggy air, all of them warm and safe in the dark as he uses druidic mind-speech to weave a tale of the Second World War (And why did they have to have two of them? Were all the smaller clashes that came before not enough bloodshed for those blood-soaked rulers, those bloated carrion vultures masquerading as men screaming with torn and hollow throats, ‘cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war’?), of fighting for his country and being captured behind enemy lines.

He mind-speaks of death chambers and six-point stars and colored cloth triangles stitched on shirts, of digging mass graves (even now, he cannot stand the thought of digging in the earth for any purpose), of a little girl with skin the color of burnt sugar and incongruously green eyes who cried when all her dark curls were shorn. (She drew pictures in the earth with her fingers and sat by the fence separating the men and women to teach him a few words of the tongue her mother’s people spoke. The pictures were always beautiful.)

He speaks of that same girl, her green eyes staring glassy and lifeless, blood mixing with the petals of the wildflowers she had been running to give him. (The words she taught him fall audibly from his lips like a desperate plea for absolution given to unknown gods. They made him bury her in a separate grave for children. They flogged him when he asked to mark the burial place.) He speaks of the ink forced beneath his skin reducing him to a number, of a doctor that cut him open to see what would happen, of a strange kind of power beneath the earth in that place that dampened his magic, of the disbelief when freedom finally came, of the ink he chose to decorate his back many years later (a tree made of names, a litany for the dead) to cover (but not quite hide) the scars the whip made. He speaks until his story is done and tears are sliding down each of their faces (Freya wonders how he has not made himself ill with crying so much), the stars wheeling overhead as the sky begins to lighten with the dawn still hours away.

Merlin’s head lolls as he struggles not to fall asleep, stifling a yawn as his eyelids flutter, drained. She and Lancelot guide him back down to the soft, mossy earth with gentle hands, curling around him protectively. They sleep wrapped around each other even when the sun is high enough to shine down on their little clearing and myriad voices call their names beneath the ancient sentinel trees. (It is the first time in many years that any of the three has not woken with a scream tumbling from their lips.)

Merlin mentally swears a blue streak at the sun for being so bright, burying his face in both the comforter and the crook of Freya’s neck as he mumbles _head 'urts_ and _’snot fair_ and _ow_. Lancelot mutters drowsily, something about _shuddup_ and _not nice_ and _’msleep_ and shifts his arm a bit, his right hand smacking Freya’s shoulder. She, in turn, grumbles _don’t tell me what to do, Ysmay, I can eat the floof if I want to. Yes, I speak meese_.

Merlin wakes them both up by practically convulsing with laughter. Freya smacks his arm and Lancelot pokes him in the ribs, laughing with him (his head still hurts, but it doesn’t seem to matter much anymore), and he thinks that maybe, everything will be alright someday. Not today, or even soon (he is neither a fool nor an optimist anymore) but someday. He can work with that, if he has such people as these to stand beside him. 


	4. Waffles With a Side of Despair and a Dash of Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pain. And general weirdness. That's it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And here is the long-awaited Chapter Four! I apologize in advance for how weird this chapter turned out. This is very stream-of-consciousness, I guess? And I kinda go back and forth on whether or not I like it, but the only other version of Chapter Four that I have I wrote myself into a corner, so enjoy this monstrosity instead. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. Some mentions of substance abuse. The author apologizes in advance for their abuse of commas, run-on sentences, and parentheses.
> 
> Edit: also I am going to be revising the earlier chapters to include Merlin being partially mute due to trauma. It's not that his tongue/voice was physically harmed, just that he doesn't/can't speak much anymore because of everything that's happened to him. 

 

Four.

 

Merlin puts up wards so his family can't hear him screaming as he jerks awake from nightmares and half-twisted memories. He shows them to guest rooms and very carefully does not ask about what they're doing. (He knows full well they're reading his letters. It doesn't occur to him until later that perhaps some of those letters were never meant to be read.) He pretends, because it's _easy_. Because he's frighteningly good at it. Because he doesn't know what else to _do_. (He wakes from dreams of Morgana, of Mordred, of the Great Dragon, returned from the dead to laugh at him, at his _folly_ , to demand _answers_.)

A week after The Return, he wanders into the kitchen at an unholy hour to make breakfast, bleary-eyed from too little sleep. He stumbles a bit, yawning, his bare toes catching on a tear in the lino that he's never bothered repairing, dressed in an undershirt and a tatty pair of jeans. It is as he's draining the last of his third cup of coffee, fiddling with a waffle maker that he bought at some point after the Second World War and promptly forgot he even _had_ , that Gwen makes an appearance in a thick flannel nightgown, her long hair unbound and frizzing about her face, drawn by the smell of something cooking as much as the rising of the sun.

 

Merlin grins at her, mouthing silently, “hullo Gwen.” (Merlin dreams of proud Guanhamara, laughing Gwenhwyfar, fierce Ginevra, demure Genevieve, angry Gwynevere, wild Finnabair. He dreams of Jennifer, of Gwenivar, of Guennuuar. He dreams of _his_ Gwen the least. He tastes bile on his teeth when he wakes, shame heavy on his tongue.)

Gwen smiles at him, “good morning, Merlin.” Her smile falls flat within seconds.

He frowns, shoving his dark curls out of his eyes, “hmm?”

“Oh, well, I just... you have a lot of scars, is all.” He blinks, looks down, then up again. Surely there's not _that_ many? Except, of course, Gwen's never seen _any_ of his scars, and he does have a few more than he did even back in... well, back then.

Merlin gives an awkward laugh, a tight smile he knows she won't buy, not really. Gwen smiles again, but it doesn't reach her eyes.

She gestures to his mug, “what's that?”

He shows her the tin pronouncing it COFFEE in big black letters.

Gwen rolls her eyes, giggling, “that doesn't tell me what it is, Mer.”

He gestures a wordless _try_? at her.

She takes a sip, then starts coughing. “It's not, um, not bad, really,” she says, “it's just so bitter.”

He hands her milk and sugar in response. There is a companionable, soft quiet as Gwen sips at her now-sweetened, milky coffee, an early-morning calm as Merlin cooks waffles and hums “God Save the Queen”, laughing softly at the irony of it.

 

Hunith is next to appear, Balinor at her back with Will not far behind them. (Merlin dreams of Hunith, only she has red hair, and that is wrong, somehow. Sometimes his mother is a Christian woman, and that is wrong too. Merlin's father is a demon in his dreams where his mother is a Christian; where she has red hair; and his human skin is just that: skin, but not his own. It is a mask his father wears. His _father_ is. His father _is_. Merlin dreams that his father is a madman, that his father is one of the Fae Folk, that he is a wandering minstrel, that he is something else entirely. He dreams that Will dies tragically saving a sister that didn't exist from a fire that never happened. He dreams that Will is cruel. That Will is simple-minded. That Will is a nobleman (he would hate that). That Will is Sir William, a Knight of the Round Table. He wakes up. There are tears drying stickily on his face.) They don't say much beyond exchanging pleasantries, though Will laughs when Merlin burns his fingers on the waffle iron. Hunith frowns at Will for laughing, and Balinor bites back a smile, his lips twitching. Merlin smacks Will's hands in an attempt to keep him from filching sugar cubes.

 

Mordred shows up, annoyingly cheerful for how early it is, dragging a half-asleep Gwaine behind him. Lancelot trips halfway down the stairs with a muffled shout, Freya snickering as she follows. (Merlin dreams of Mordred, only his name is Medraut, and he is Morgana's son. Or, no, his name is Modredus, and he is Arthur's bastard. Wrong again, and his name is Modryd this time and he has a Spaniard's coloring. Medraut is solemn, a scholar. Modredus is fierce and vengeful. Modryd is kind, and dies at the age of nine in Uther's fires. He dreams of Gwaine, but he is not Gwaine; he is Gawain, Morgause's youngest, and he has three brothers, one of whom is Agravaine. He loves apples, still. Gawain is in love with a pretty druidess named Lorie. Their love is doomed by villagers with unkind glances and stones in their hands. Merlin dreams that Lancelot runs away with Gwen, with whom he has three daughters. That he is actually in love with _Arthur_ , and seduces Gwen to make Arthur jealous. That Lancelot is French. That Lancelot does not exist. Merlin dreams that Freya's name is really Nineve, and she is half-faerie. He dreams that she is Nimueh's daughter, that she is his pupil, that he loves her best, that he loves her not at all. Merlin wakes with blood in his mouth.)

The knights shamble in yawning and groaning, after there is a ridiculously large mountain of waffles on the table and Merlin starts cooking sausages, Ygraine following with a warm smile. Leon is physically dragging Bedivere, who is grabbing at the stairs and moaning for his warm bed. (Merlin dreams that Bedivere is a sorcerer and is hanged for conjuring flowers to soothe a frightened child. He dreams that Kay is able to grow to giant's size but is slain at Camlann nonetheless. He dreams that Geraint can speak any language, including dragon-speak. He dreams that Galahad is Lancelot’s son and searches for the Holy Grail. (He finds it, but dies as soon as his fingers touch the shining gold. The Grail is not meant for mortal men. Perhaps that is why it is holy.) He dreams that Ywain doesn't die from Valiant's shield, because he has a talking lion as a battle-companion who guards him as he sleeps. He dreams that Percival is a werewolf and Elyan's mother's name is Claire. Merlin wakes gasping for breath.)

Gwaine disappears with a grin and a glass of water, returning with a groggy, wet-haired Arthur. Gaius follows them, shuffling a little as his old bones click together. (Merlin dreams of Leon and Gaius exactly as they have always been, and thanks gods he no longer quite believes in for small mercies. He dreams that Arthur falls from his horse when he is twelve and breaks his spine. He dreams that Arthur drowns in the Lake of Avalon at the age of five (Merlin is beginning to hate irony). He dreams that Arthur lives until he is sixty-eight. He dreams that Arthur dies within three hours of his birth. He dreams that Arthur comes back after a hundred years and reigns victorious. He dreams that Arthur comes back wounded. He dreams that Arthur comes back. He _comes back_. He _does_. And the funny thing is, that after all this _waiting_ , Merlin still, for a long, tremulous moment after waking up, never quite believes it until Arthur trudges downstairs for breakfast. Merlin wakes up, always, always shaking. Merlin never dreams of Ygraine at all.)

 

Oil splatters on Merlin's bare arm as he fries bacon and he goes very still. His vision... _flickers_...and there is Terence across a cook-fire somewhere in southern Poland, complaining about cigarette ash in his food as chicken sizzles in a pan. Rupert elbows Terence, laughing, “well, maybe you should tell Martin not to smoke while he's cooking. And come on, Terry, everyone knows you can't cook worth a damn.”

Terence howls, “don't call me _Terry_ , Rupe, for fuck's _sake_!” James' head snaps over to them from where he's standing on watch, one hand on his gun, the other on his belt.

“Hey, pipe down, would ya?” he says in a thick New York drawl. “I'm tryin' ta cover our asses over here. With the way you two dipshits are carryin' on, the damn Polacks'll hear us.”

Rupert frowns, “easy there; my ma's Polish, James.”

James snorts, “o'course she is. I met your ma, numbskull. Gave me some of those potato things for your Hanukkah.” There is a reply and more laughter, but it slips through his head like water through grasping fingertips. He is, once more, in his kitchen, bacon turning crisp in a pan. The silence is heavy, like dragging a dead man (He knows well that particular anguish, he has carried too many friends to too many shallow graves he dug with his own hands. Terence was one of them. Rupert's body was shipped back to his mother in a rough pine box. There wasn't enough left of James to bury. He has always felt that the greater injustice.), his family staring with worried eyes. There is a blister forming on his arm. He avoids all of their gazes, trying not to let anything burn.

 

The silence thickens, like fog, like rain. It breaks with Gwen's soft voice, like the tiny scrape of metal on rock that was all the warning they had before the resulting explosion that turned James into so much red mist. “Are...are you alright, Merlin?” she asks, her hand hovering over his shoulder without quite touching.

He gives her a tight-lipped grin and nods. She returns his smile, not quite believing him but unsure how to help. The tension eased, chatter starts back up like before. He can feel them glancing at him every so often, though, and grits his teeth against their pity.

 

He fixes a rigor mortis grin on his face and slips away at the first opportunity, fumbling a cigarette from his pocket with shaking fingers. He is stubbing out his fourth smoke and lighting a fifth when his father steps out onto the porch.

“Where did you go?” Balinor asks him, apropos of nothing. Merlin coughs, choking a little, and squints at the hazy form of a long-dead lord of dragons. _Ghosts_ , his mind whispers treacherously, _ghosts and apparitions and nothing more_.

He frowns, cocks his head, gesturing to the porch.

Balinor shakes his head, “no, I meant before. In the kitchen, you went somewhere, _somewhen_ else for a bit, didn't you?”

“Hnn?”

“I was a soldier once myself. I know how to recognize the signs.”

“Mm.”

“So, where did you go?”

Merlin stammers and stutters, wanting to say _something_ , to explain, but he just can't make the words unstick from where they lie heavy in his throat. “Southern Poland,” he wants to say but doesn't, “the autumn of 1916. I was _cooking_ , of all things. Terrence said that I was getting ash on his tomatoes and Rupe told him to shut up because he couldn't cook anyway.” His mouth trembles with all the things he can't say, “they were such _arseholes_ and I couldn't save them. I couldn't, and I had to _stand there_ in front of their families and explain how I was the only one of my entire company to survive. I had to _stand there_ and tell them I was _sorry_ , as if that changed something. Gods. Gods.” He clamps a shaking hand over his useless empty mouth, tears sliding down his face.

He sobs wretchedly, dropping to his knees on the floor. He buries his face into his father's chest and hides from the world for a while. Balinor cradles his son in his arms and whispers reassurances into his hair until the tears run their course. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ok, so not too happy where this ended, but I couldn't think of a better way to end it at the moment. And you've waited long enough, lol.


End file.
